


what has gathered will disperse

by osmia



Category: The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay - Michael Chabon
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Post-Canon, Queer Gen, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 06:46:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2841824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osmia/pseuds/osmia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“This,” Sammy begins with a smile, “is the good part.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	what has gathered will disperse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [defcontwo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/defcontwo/gifts).



> I hope this satisfies your hopes to some degree, fellow participant! Happy reading and Happy Yuletide! 
> 
> Warnings for a short scene referring to and containing canon-typical homophobic police violence. Thanks A & A for the beta! Title is a line from 'Tin Foiled' by Andrew Bird because I'm predictable.

 

 

_So I’m thinking our hero, it’s not a question of having a sudden bolt of do-good inspiration; that’s not the point of the story. More like he does it despite not knowing himself yet. What do you think?_

_It’s good, but what will he be called? He must have some kind of special powers, no?_

_Sure, sure. He can open jars just by looking at them, communicate with dirt, whatever._

 

 

**Los Angeles, 1956**

“Tommy’s infatuated,” Rosa says, voice a conspiratorial whisper. Even through the phone Sammy can hear the giggle brewing in her throat; he feels his heart swell at the suggestion of it.

He closes his eyes, imagines the phone booth melting into the sidewalk until he’s standing in his old kitchen, sticking his fingers in uncooked pastry dough, doodling terrible figures in the margins of Tommy’s math homework until Rosa laughs and slaps his hand away. It’s a sort of fiction, but everything feels a bit like fiction to him; at once gloomy and comical, like the bright colors of a Batman comic from what feels like a lifetime ago.

The hotel he stayed in last week seemed rehearsed in its pre-war curtains and stains running the length of the carpet; the publisher he bought a drink for, thinking this might lead to a deal or perhaps a fuck, was aloof and plastic, Sammy’s own writhing hope for either outcome and subsequent guilt cliche, contrived.

His back aches. Romanticizing his former life of convenience isn’t such a crime, he thinks.

“Sammy?” It’s not so different from the voice asking for more coins, and he shakes himself, suddenly back in California and mindlessly feeding the phone another quarter.

“Yes, sorry. Infatuated with who?”

“A girl in his class; Valentina,” Rosa says, with the kind of flourish a name like 'Valentina' probably deserves. She lowers her voice and continues, “He’s actually showing up at school now!”

They both laugh. The booth bursts with it. “Joe’s beside himself,” she continues, “I think he’s not sure what to do with himself when he doesn’t have to drag Tommy back there by the ears.”

Sammy can’t imagine it. Never one for procrastination, he is sure Joe spends the majority of his time with his brow furrowed, drawing, inking, just like old times. The restlessness in him never spilled over his work; never tarnished the figures dancing and straining across his neat little panels. He is surely, in some nebulous, metaphoric manner, still cuffed to his workbench.

But what does Sammy know.

He runs a hand through his hair, its almost-fashionable new haircut teasing him; Rosa’s laugh, infectious and not at all business-like, teasing him. He remembers when she was pregnant, anxious and making plans with Sammy for all contingencies while friends congratulated them and reverently told Rosa, darling, you’re absolutely _glowing_.

Maybe this was what they meant. A warmth that spreads through the air on invisible currents, radio waves, perhaps.

Sammy swallows. They are all changed. He feels the same, like all differences are simply a matter of costuming. A smirk in the back of his mind that is Tracy Bacon all over only serves to remind him of the fact.

 _And_ , it helpfully supplies, shaking him out of the sullen shackles descended around him, _Tommy is going to school. Unheard of._

 

 

**San Francisco, 1959**

It’s a sticky, warm sort of night; not so different from the sweaty atmosphere of the bar behind him.

Sammy — perhaps as a side-effect of having amassed great amounts of courage to come here in the first place, or perhaps thanks to the wine — does not scatter when the officer approaches, as one more accustomed to these situations might. He opts instead to stick out his chin and grind his heels into the Polk Gulch concrete.

The effect is not as intimidating as he’d have hoped, as he is puny as ever and rounding out around the waistline with the best of them, dull streetlamps only highlighting these much-hated features. However.

“Problem, Officer?”

“A bit lost are we, son?” the cop responds, and Sammy scoffs; nobody has called him ‘son’ in years, small stature notwithstanding. It’s not the address of a caring relative or Anapol this time, though. There’s a bite to it. He’s tall. Menacing.

Sammy feels hot and upset, smarting as his mind settles on the memory of Tracy Bacon brawling with no less than four policemen at Pawtaw, which is forever inextricable from the collective pain felt at the news of little Thomas’ death, and his own at that of Bacon’s.

“Just having a good time, Officer,” he says, baring his teeth just a little.

He’s not sure who he’s channeling; Bacon or Joe, but it’s of little consequence. His clenched fists impede the blood flow to his hands. He’s heard the stories, seen the sombre mood descend over an entire crowd as someone asks where so-and-so is, only to receive the answer that they are in a jail cell, hospital, or worse.

The cop, bearing down on him like a shark sniffing at blood spilled through water, isn’t pleased. Sammy can feel his breath on his face.

“Well, why don’t you piss off and have a good time at home, huh pretty boy?”

There’s no finesse to it, no witty foreplay to the violence. Sammy spits on the ground.

“You like the pretty ones?” Sammy says, the world jolting sideways a little as he leans in. He’s never been particularly good at holding his liquor and tonight is no exception.

“You little, fucking-” the cop swears, grabbing the lapels of his shirt. One of the buttons pops clean off and bounces, once, twice, before settling on the pavement. Footsteps slap quickly after it and a strong arm is reaching around his torso, pulling him back.

“Sorry, Officer. My brother here’s a bit of a lightweight, well. As you can see!” His arm drops away from Sammy, probably satisfied he isn’t going to throw himself back into a fist fight, and he says, voice low and urgent, “Look contrite and walk away, quick as you can. There’s a tram stop not far from here. Lots of people around.”

Sammy does as instructed by his new protector and brother, apparently. The cop watches them before turning away. The look on his face is unsatisfied and it’s horrific.

“Thanks,” Sammy says, holding out a hand. His voice is tense and clipped, but he’s grateful. He hopes that comes across. This guy’s young and impressively hairy, and he smiles, shaking Sammy’s hand, so it must.

“Ben,” he says, flashing a smile and perhaps even a bit of a wink.

Were Sammy in a better mood he’d admire the heroism-as-cruising-tactic schtick, but having narrowly avoided something — he’s not sure what, exactly — he’s still livid, calculated despite his drunkenness. He turns around and is baffled to see the cop step right into the very same bar Sammy had not long ago vacated.

“I’m sorry, excuse me,” Sammy says, falling out of step and turning back towards the bar.

“Jesus, you’re mad.” Ben doesn’t drag Sammy back this time, though.

Music hits Sammy from all sides as he steps back through the entrance. It's Ella Fitzgerald, maybe. A couple of men eye him as he passes but he shrugs off their gaze.

The cop reaches the bar and puts his baton on the table, jeers at the men sipping their drinks on either side of him until they wander off, which doesn’t take very long at all. A gun would be more effective, Sammy thinks, always a cynic, but he supposes the cop isn’t looking for panic.

The barman, who Sammy had definitely cast more than a few quick glances at earlier, is still attractive in his anxiety, a steady hand pushing a wad of cash across the carpet-lined and beer-soaked bar. [1]

Not prone to rash acts of heroism as Joe might have been, Sammy frowns and then, exercising his cousin’s other infamous trait, escapes.

 

 

**Portland, 1960**

“And then what happened?”

Sammy’s coffee is cold on the table in front of him, having narrowly avoided several wild gestures and been well and truly forgotten in the face of a good story.

He feels sheepish and inexperienced, though. He supposes you shouldn’t talk about previous romantic or sexual entanglements on a first date, and this is a date, isn’t it? He licks at the corners of his lips, where the taste of babka hastily stuffed into a hungry mouth still lingers.

His date, a librarian with dark skin and short black hair, spectacled and in possession of a fantastic grin, seems interested though, and Sammy allows himself a brief moment of pride in his storytelling abilities.

“This,” Sammy begins with a smile, “is the good part.”

 

 

**New York, 1963**

He had never intended to stay away so long, but time had crept up on him.

He had — despite ducking out of any social gatherings of more than a handful of friends-of-friends — witnessed the stirrings of what would become the movements of, first, gay liberation and later, gay pride. [2]

Having run from all but one attempt at what Rosa had only once, earning a light slap on the arm from teenaged Tommy, called ‘following your heart’, he didn’t exactly chalk his presence up as being necessary to either of these things, but he was there.

Returning to New York, and not for a visit this time, he had felt this sense of there-ness engulf him, consume him even. There were no bar mitzvah celebrations to attend and no avant garde dance performances or poetry readings. He had taken to attending the latter years ago in the hopes of getting in touch with literary side, as opposed to the one which doled out more and more improbable powers for costumed vigilantes and heroes. There was no special reason for him to be there.

He was just there.

His first few hours after stepping out of the airport had been dizzying. He downed an espresso at an Italian coffee-house, an egg-roll at a diner. Inhaled deeply the smell of taxis rushing more than was good for their engines, paid a visit to Julie Glovsky — although god knows why this seemed important — and even spent far too much for a bouquet of flowers at the nearest stand to decorate his neglected mother’s grave.

He had felt busy, important. There’s only one Sam Clay! [3]

The anxiety, pushed aside as he was accustomed to doing, returns to him in a rush as he climbs the small number of steps to the Kavalier-Saks household in Lavoisier Drive.

Regular phone conversations, mostly with Rosa, and letters, with Joe, had kept him in the loop as to their daily on-goings, but knowing how they had been spending their lives was a vastly different thing to living his own alongside them.

Will they think him old? Pathetic? Returned for good after such a long time, he isn’t sure. What if Joe, in some outburst of rediscovered impulsiveness, had left them destitute, with Sammy now their only hope at picking up the pieces?

He feels itchy, constrained in his clothes. Simultaneously too hot and too cold.

Then Rosa opens the door and pulls him inside by the sleeve like he’ll escape otherwise and there it is: the smell of something on the edge of burning wafting from the kitchen and Joe with a very-grown-up-looking Tommy sitting at the table with their heads bent low, examining something.

Everything looks correct and yet odd, the same way he supposes any lived-in house acquires more character over time.

He lets out a little cough and says quietly, “Hello Tommy, Joe.” Immediately their heads pop up like whack-a-moles at a fair, smiles suddenly splitting their faces and obliterating their former concentration.

Rosa laughs, pinches at a cheek — they are definitely getting old — and says, “Sam Clay, what have you done to your hair? It’s awful!” Her eyes are wet though, her smile slack and relieved, so he isn’t fooled.

Tommy stands up and in three surprising strides is in front of him, shaking his hand in a habitual gesture apparently not forgotten. Finally, Joe, more relaxed than anyone, reaches around them all, claps a hand to Sammy’s shoulder, and smiles.

The pinch, the handshake, the hand on his shoulder; it feels as though they reach inside of him, tend to his worries, say _welcome home Sammy_.

He’s overwhelmed. He looks at Tommy, bites back a remark about how tall he his and finds Rosa’s hand in his own, not sure what to say.

Sharply, Joe exhales a short, explosive ‘fuck!’ and runs to the kitchen.

They laugh, Sammy, Rosa and Tommy, covering their noses to obscure the smell of burning-whatever-it-is.

Maybe nothing else needs to be said.

 

 

 

 

[[1](http://www.wherevertheresafight.com/node/287)] In 1960, an ABC inspector and a San Francisco police officer are caught extorting money from gay bar owners, called the ‘Gayola Scandal’ in the press. 

[[2](https://books.google.com.au/books?id=EvBMyR1hr2wC&printsec=frontcover&dq=Forging+Gay+Identities:+Organizing+Sexuality+in+San+Francisco,+1950-1994&hl=en&sa=X&ei=QN2aVLjqKpfY8gXKjICQBg&ved=0CB4Q6AEwAA#v=onepage&q=Forging%20Gay%20Identities%3A%20Organizing%20Sexuality%20in%20San%20Francisco%2C%201950-1994&f=false)] LGBT activist groups in San Francisco have their genesis in the “tiny underground bar subculture” of the 1950’s.

[[3](http://books.google.com.au/books/about/The_Comic_Book_Makers.html?id=DXZlAAAAMAAJ&redir_esc=y)] Said originally of Jack Kirby by creative partner Joe Simon.


End file.
